Growing up witth a sense of entitlement

Written by Joe Pisani
Tuesday, 13 October 2009 11:18

Something I hear a lot, from Greenwich to the Valley, from New Canaan to Milford, from privileged enclaves to middle-class neighborhoods, and from flustered parents complaining about their kids is the word “entitlement.”

“She suffers from a sense of entitlement!” “He thinks society owes him a living.” “I gave her too much.” Or as my mother used to say – referring to my sisters, I suspect – “The more you give these kids, the more they want.”

We Baby Boomers had considerably more than our parents, who were products of the Depression, and we tried to give our kids everything, but along the way, did we endow them with a sense of “entitlement”?

This kind of attitude often leads to those notorious class distinctions, whereby kids who live in McMansions don’t want to associate with kids who live in condos, and kids who drive Sentras to school are embarrassed to park next to Audis.

Judging people by their possessions rather than their character can turn the real world upside down and cause young people to do a lot of crazy things.

One of my friends complained that his son refused to drive the family Saturn for fear of being ridiculed. Someone else’s daughter didn’t want to be seen in her father’s Civic because it looked like a “getaway car.”

My daughters, I confess, have a tendency to judge people by the labels on their jeans – starting with me. They snicker when I wear Lees because it violates their fashion sense, which suggests $200 jeans are de rigueur.

I didn’t grow up with a sense of entitlement in Pine Rock Park, but how did they? Was this from watching too much “Beverly Hills 90210”?

Last week, when my ailing SUV (117,000 miles and counting) broke down, I took my daughter to the train station in my father’s Ford van (circa 1993), which looks like a hippie love van from the Woodstock era.

It has bumper stickers that proclaim “Carpenters for Clinton” and “Proud to be a Pine Rocker,” along with a rosary hanging from the rearview mirror and a plastic statue of St. Joseph on the dashboard. Whenever I drive it through upscale neighborhoods, they think I’m a would-be burglar.

My daughter was so scandalized she pleaded with her mother to get out of bed and take her to the station, but my wife shut her eyes and pulled the blanket over her head.

Off we went, but as I was driving down the street, she shrieked, “You’re going too fast! A cop is gonna pull us over and see me in this dumpy car.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“You grew up like this,” she sneered. “I didn’t.” There it was. That sense of “entitlement.” Where did it come from — her mother?

Two blocks from the station, she made me stop so she could walk the rest of the way. I started to argue with her until I noticed a cop pull up behind me. He probably thought I was trying to hold her hostage, so I smiled and drove off to the car wash.

Joe Pisani can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .